


where do we go from here?

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, set between s3e22 and s4e3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: All it takes is five months.





	where do we go from here?

**Author's Note:**

> i'm slowly trying to get myself back into writing again, and what better way to do it than through something short?
> 
> partially inspired by 'loved despite of great faults' by blonde redhead.
> 
>  
> 
> minor edit note 15/10/17: tweaked wording in some places, as well as sentence structure.

**I.**

 

During the first month after his victory, and seemingly despite everything that’s going on, time seems to have ground to a halt.

Now, from a rational viewpoint – one that Ed would favor, if he could speak… which he can’t, frozen inside a block of ice as he is – Oswald knows that time passes as it has always done, slowly and rapidly all at once, filled to the brim with tasks and paperwork in a way that’s achingly familiar.

In short, time passes.

He takes the old Sirens club from Barbara, made easier by the fact it’s her name on the lease and she's nowhere to be found, made easiest by the fact her partners in crime – and possibly in life, although Oswald hasn’t really bothered to take the time to analyze the situation  _there_  – are not here to oppose him. Tabitha has gone to ground, Butch is, for the lack of a better word, a vegetable, and everything the trio had once presided over is easy pickings.

It’s almost too easy. Or maybe it just feels that way because he’s done this several times before, the slow climb back to the top of the city’s food chain almost routine by now.

Because falling is just a prerequisite for getting back up again.

Because there’s no one left to oppose him.

Because the only one who could’ve done _something_ is decorating the parlor, hardly anything more than a particularly realistic sculpture.

Not for the first time, he wonders what Ed would say about all of this; not the Riddler, not the version of him that fired an empty gun at him at the docks, but the one that was ( _is_?) his best friend and closest confidante.

He wonders if that Ed would be proud, would be impressed by how fast he’s rebuilding everything he’s lost.

Well…

Not everything.

“ _What more could someone ask for_ , you told me,” he says on day twenty-three after, alone in the manor and staring at the block of ice with a glass of wine in his hand. “Do you remember that? I replied, _someone to share it with_ , and I meant it. I must admit I still do. Isn’t that crazy?”

The ice block doesn’t reply.

“Maybe I was greedy to think I could have everything I wanted. But after everything I’ve been through, don’t I deserve a little bit of happiness? You would deny me that, would deny me my life because that’s what you thought you were supposed to do,” he continues and empties the glass. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Call it spite, but I have everything I wanted. I have the city, I have its people, and I have you.”

The words leave a sour taste after they leave his mouth, his traitorous heart skipping a beat once he lets himself look at Ed’s motionless face.

_I have you._

_But not in the way that matters_.

 

 

**II.**

 

The second month is a flurry of preparations and strategy, figuring out a system to keep his standing in the city without holding the office of mayor.

Not that he wants _that_ back.

After all, what fun would it be without Ed? He’s able to be honest enough with himself to admit that part of why he enjoyed being in office in the first place was who he shared the space with, the thrill of some elusive feeling that’s long gone.

So, he shuts that part of himself down, reels in the part that’s ruled by emotion and learns to look at things from a new perspective, see the world separate from how he reacts to it, makes himself approach things from an objective standpoint.

He becomes as cold and still as his heart, takes back control systematically, only letting himself imagine what Ed’s advice would be in the quiet moments when he’s alone. The thoughts come usually when he’s poring over maps and intel with a bottle by his hand, and always, always without letting anyone else near – he can’t afford for anyone else to know everything he’s doing, allows even his closest lieutenants only a partial glimpse of the bigger picture.

Whether it’s paranoia or justified caution after what happened the last time he let someone in, he doesn’t know.

Ivy _tries_ , he has to give the girl that – but despite her enthusiasm, she’s impossible to trust. She’s loyal, that much is true, but she’s also reckless and far too young to understand the importance of what he’s doing.

Because despite her appearance, she’s just a child.

And he doesn’t have much patience for children.

So, he keeps his plans to himself and acts methodically, hones his negotiation skills until he’s confident that he’ll walk away from any situation with what he wants while giving as little as possible in return, makes himself forget the rage that makes his hands shake and focuses on getting back what he’s lost.

Some days, it’s hard to decide whether the whole operation is a failure or a success.

But, no matter: most of the city is back under his thumb as it should be with only a few gangs left that try to resist his rule.

He squashes them as easily as one would a comatose bug.

The lack of challenge is disappointing, leaving the whole thing ringing like a hollow victory, as cold and distant as the block of ice still adorning the parlor. He talks to it sometimes when the dullness of the moving, breathing people surrounding him becomes too much to bear.

He can’t help himself, really.

After all, Ed was the only one who truly understood.

There’s a spot for it – a spot for _him_ – in the new club, once the renovations and repainting are done; Oswald can see it already, see the spotlights pouring tenderly over the ice to illuminate the figure trapped within.

It’ll be a glorious triumph, and a warning.

The gangs will know what it is, will whisper its cautionary tale: _look what the Penguin did to his dearest friend. What would he do to **you**?_

That, too, is a hollow victory.

 

 

**III.**

 

The third month sees the work on the club finally completed, has Oswald choosing between various shades of upholstery, commissioning steel and silver detailing to bring the place together.

Briefly, it reminds him of his first club.

He’d been younger, then – full of pride and foolish, unprepared for his dreams finally becoming reality. He’s not sure if he can say he’s wiser than he was.

On the seventy-eighth day he has the block of ice finally moved to its podium, oversees the whole process himself to ensure that none of the idiots will damage his most prized possession.

Because there’s a moment in the stairwell, when his bad leg is throbbing with pain and one of the moving crew almost lets his grip slip, precariously tilting the block of ice before the others quickly correct it, and there’s a flash of all-too-familiar rage somewhere deep within his chest.

Once Ed is slotted into place right where he’s supposed to be, the offending oaf who almost ruined him is dispatched of with a shot from the handgun Oswald always keeps in hand’s reach nowadays.

It’s sentimental, perhaps, keeping the gun that almost killed him twice; still, it serves as a reminder just as much as Ed’s frozen form does: _sentimental_ is what gets you hurt.

He waves his hand and the rest of the crew dissipate in shocked silence, leaving him alone with the soon-to-be corpse of the worker and the ice block containing Ed. He steps over the former, ignoring the soft gurgles as the man’s lung collapses – he’ll be dead within minutes – and makes his way over to the partially-stocked bar.

He grabs a bottle of vodka and a piece of cloth, walks over to the ice block and carefully wipes off the drops of blood that splashed onto it when he made the shot.

“I apologize for that,” he says quietly, stepping back from the block of ice to make sure no blood remains on it. Satisfied that he’s gotten it back to as unmarred as he could without damaging its integrity, he takes a hearty swig from the bottle of vodka and pulls out his phone to call Zsasz for cleanup.

He hopes the floor won’t stain.

 

 

**IV.**

 

The fourth month means settling in, making the final preparations for the opening night of his club and the unveiling of the license initiative. It’s an elegant, if a rather unorthodox solution to dealing with the city’s crime problem – the best part being the amount of money he’ll be getting once it’s implemented, all thanks to a variety of taxes and fees.

Not for the first time, Oswald wonders what Ed would say.

Would Ed be impressed?

Or would he be angry because he hadn’t thought of it first?

He doesn’t know which would be worse.

In the end, he supposes it doesn’t have much bearing anyway, because Ed remains safe and sound in his icy cage, right where Oswald can keep an eye on him while he tries to figure out what to do with him.

Killing him would be pointless, letting him go would be dangerous. So far, keeping him in this stasis is the best solution he’s come up with, but he knows that can’t last: as much as he thinks himself clever, he’s had enough experience to know that things rarely stay as they are for long in this city.

The question, and the problem, as he sees it, is in figuring out a failsafe for when the inevitable happens.

Because even though he’d managed to outsmart Ed the last time, there’s no guarantee that he can do it a second time – especially not when he’s got other things to worry about, other matters to focus on.

Which isn’t to say he’s forgotten, but…

Some days he has to remind himself of the exact color of Ed’s eyes, the way he walked and spoke, because it’s starting to fade away, as slowly and surely as the memory of his mother has.

Yet another person he’s loved and lost.

And he’s content, as much as he can be: he’s not completely alone, still has Ivy and Zsasz even if Firefly and Freeze have taken their leave, has the criminal underbelly of the city in the palm of his hand, but it’s still not enough.

Some part of him knows it’ll never be enough – he shoves it down deep.

It doesn’t matter.

He wonders what Ed would say. Would he understand, as Oswald hopes he would, or would Ed call him greedy, selfish, an entitled monster, ready to throw a tantrum when he doesn’t get what he wants? Would he be stuck in stasis regardless of whether he’s frozen?

The block of ice is silent in the center of the room, the carefully chosen lighting caressing the soft ridges and imperfections in the ice to illuminate the figure suspended within.

It doesn’t matter.

 

 

**V.**

 

The fifth month is overseeing the licenses, seeing the profits skyrocket as the opening night of the club approaches steadfast, time as unrelenting as ever.

“Remember how you accused me of being a slave to my emotions?” he tells Ed’s lifeless form the night of the grand opening of the Iceberg Lounge. “No more. I’ve banished those feelings – and look how I have risen. But at what cost?”

He looks at the ice, at the dreamlike quality of Ed’s features – as much as they can be seen from within the ice, anyhow – and allows himself a small moment of regret.

“I wonder which of us is frozen.”

It truly is a shame that things turned out this way.

“ _Him_ ,” Ivy’s voice says from somewhere over his shoulder. “He’s, like, totally frozen.”

It takes breathing in slowly and reminding himself of what he said half a minute ago to stop himself from bodily attacking her for her intrusion.

Once she’s gone, he goes back to staring at the block of ice, a part of him hoping for a sign.

Hoping for something that he knows is impossible.

Was it worth it for Ed?

Is _this_ worth it?

 

*

 

All it takes is a little bit of the odd little concoction those insolent idiots are waving around, and Ed is alive again.

It would be a sight for sore eyes, if he didn’t see it suspended underwater, feeling like falling, and falling, and falling, making him more afraid than he’s ever been in his life – because the first time had been shock, pain, disbelief that it was even happening. This time, however, it’s all of the feelings swimming in the back of his mind, the agony and terror and the inevitability of his death.

Because it’s not Ed, it’s Riddler – the distinction is clear in his mind, as clear as the knowledge he will die at the hand of this man, or he will never die at all.

Then, as quickly as it started, it’s over.

He disentangles himself from Jim Gordon – that will make the papers, this much he knows even in the state he’s in – and looks back to the block of ice to reassure himself.

_He’s still in there._

_He’s still in there._

_He’s still in there._

 

*

 

Whoever came up with the platitude about _best laid plans_ better have found themselves dying a terrible, violent death.

Because despite every measure he’s taken to ensure that Ed stays _exactly_ where he’s meant to be…

He’s gone.

There’s nothing left other than that ridiculous hat Ed had insisted on wearing and a puddle of water soaking into the floor of the club.

He’s out there, somewhere, probably already planning his revenge. Because the story Oswald had told the reporters, embellished and full of half-lies as it was, will not hold water once Ed resurfaces. He’ll come after Oswald, that much is certain: because he knows Ed, and knows that Ed is nothing if not obsessive in his pursuit of his justice.

So, it’s only a matter of time.

There’s plenty of annoyance, plenty of anger – but, despite everything, there’s still that stubborn glimmer of hope.

Maybe he’ll get Ed back, instead of the Riddler.

He doesn’t know which would be worse.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


End file.
